


A Midwinter Tradition

by rotrude



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Banter, Camelot, Canon Compliant, Love, M/M, Romance, Traditions, Winter, Yule
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-21
Updated: 2019-12-21
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:47:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21582529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rotrude/pseuds/rotrude
Summary: Ever since once battling a witch, Merlin and Arthur have developed a Yule tradition of their own. It's private, comforting, and it warms more than just the heart.
Relationships: Merlin/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)
Comments: 34
Kudos: 262
Collections: Merlin Holidays 2019





	A Midwinter Tradition

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Skitz_phenom](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skitz_phenom/gifts).



> Dear Skitz_phenom, I hope this winter gift brings you some joy and a measure of entertainment. Reading your prompts I got a sense for your love of canon and canon AUs, so I went fully medieval, and hopped back to Camelot, if only with the mind, hoping to give you a cozy read suitable for the season.
> 
> This is also the place for thanking betas, and so will I. Thank you to S, this fic's thorough editor! Happy holidays to you too.
> 
> And last but not least I'd like to thank the mods for running this most seasonal of fests!

Snow has crusted the windowsills and the window frame, so that only half discs of glass are clear of the substance. The light filtering in is pallid, translucent, laden with grey. It brightens some spots in the room: the edge of the bed with its rough but warm covers, the little woven rug at its end, and one side of the narrow but serviceable little wardrobe, together with the decorations that hang on the wall next to it. 

The decorations don’t amount to much. There are sprigs of holly with a few red berries scattered round their cores. After all good spirits live in their branchlets; it's only right to have them on display. Ribbons of ivy grace the opposite corner. Aromatic evergreens twist around the door, but the light doesn't really shine on them. Still they're there. It's enough to fill his little room with the comfort of the season.

When he was young, Merlin loved the decorations his mother would put up. She'd hang wreaths she'd made herself out of mistletoe and rosemary. She'd deck their house with candles and oak bark, and a log would always burn in the fireplace. The preparations for the season were always a joy. Though they weren't exactly rich, this was always a time for celebration in their household. While Hunith kept to a strict budget during the rest of the year, she made sure never to skimp on Yuletide. She cleaned the house, she decorated, and she and Merlin baked from morning to evening. These had been their traditions.

Now Merlin has his own rituals. He has no idea how they came to be, how they developed. It's been a while. Four years at least. He just keeps to them. Year after year. 

It's only because he really looks forward to the rest of the day that he pushes off the blanket and braves the frost that permeates the room. The cold hits him like a wall. His bare feet nearly stick to the stone floor and his bones hurt with the violence of it. 

Though he'd rather preserve the little heat his body has got, he washes his face and behind his ears. It takes a whole lot of courage to strip off his shirt and drag a damp cloth over his torso and under his arms. He feels as if he will sprout icicles if he tarries too long.

When he's as clean as can be without the use of a tub, he dresses. He's going to need layers today, so over his usual tunic, red for the season, he puts on a sheepskin fleece, over which he pulls on his everyday jacket. His boots are tighter than normal because he's wearing two pairs of woollen socks.

For once Gaius is still snoring loudly by the time Merlin's out of the workshop. Merlin is no early riser, a fault tempered by the fact that Arthur is even less of an early bird than he is. But, indeed, this day is special.

Because of the festivities, the kitchens have long been operating. A big pail, hung by chains, boils and bubbles in the largest fireplace. Biscuits, which release a splendidly mouth-watering scent of cardamom, bake in the oven. Countless kitchen hands are cutting vegetables that will be served for lunch, while the head cook herself prepares Arthur's breakfast. She blabbers on as she does, talking about how the King likes his cutlets well marinated and nicely grilled. His ham ought to be dry cured, otherwise he won't eat it. Just like he won't eat greens. The King has been heard saying greens are for peasants, for the farmhands who work the land. 

Merlin doesn't contradict her. As a Prince, Arthur had often talked like that. Thanks to Gwen and the knights' influence, he doesn't do this anymore. He's learning not to be that insensitive or thoughtless, but Cook has not updated her perception of him. Again, Merlin doesn't bother speaking up. Cook is not talking for his benefit, but rather to herself; she acts as if Merlin himself doesn't exist, as if he's merely a contraption such as her whisk. It's so early in the morning, Merlin isn't about to try and change the woman's perception of him.

When Cook is done with her preparations, Merlin leaves the kitchen with his tray. He balances it carefully without looking at his feet. The array of dishes he's bearing has been carefully placed so that all the weight is evenly distributed. That's something he only learnt to do a year into his job after countless mishaps. Now he warily walks up the wide stone staircase to the main floor and then carefully ascends the narrow spiral one leading to the King's wing. 

Light slants in from the corridor windows. Most of the torches have blown out in the night, but a few still emit a scent of burnt resin. Merlin moves in the stark colourlessness of early winter mornings, his breath misting up as he treads slowly and carefully towards the King’s bedchamber.

He doesn't knock on the door. He never does. It's not that his mother didn't teach him manners, it's that he simply forgets to stand on ceremony around Arthur. With Arthur it feels natural to just barge in, to start the day with bickering and roughhousing, as they’re wont to do. That's a routine that developed naturally in the early days of their relationship; it's one he wouldn't give up for the world.

To Merlin’s surprise, Arthur is already up. Though he's a man of action, a soldier used to taking up his sword to defend those in need, a military man used to difficult conditions during long campaigns, Arthur likes a good lie-in. He loves to burrow under his blankets and furs, the fire banked low in the fireplace, the room cosy and toasty. He has a penchant for lying on his side, an arm stuck under the soft mounds of the pillows he rests on. Sometimes he snores, but he won't ever admit it. Yet, that's the truth of it. 

In deference to the frost that set in a week before this Yule Eve, Arthur is not in the buff. Instead, he's wearing a white nightshirt of heavy linen. The mound of fur blankets is even higher than Merlin remembers it from the night before, and the mass at the foot of the bed indicates that he's used warming stones. Merlin can tell it's really cold when Arthur resorts to devices such as extra blankets and heating implements in order to stave off the chill. If it's even slightly bearable, Arthur will grit his teeth and stomach it with nary a complaint. Merlin can perfectly read the discomfort on his face, but Arthur won't vocalise it. He’ll stoically withstand frigid temperatures, keeping his clothing to a minimum, like any other knight.

Though he should pretend not to have noticed, Merlin says, “Feeling the cold, are you?”

“Cold?” Arthur rolls his eyes as if Merlin's said something rather funny. “What are you talking about! The morning air is merely bracing.”

Merlin doesn't find it so, but doesn't say it. He puts the tray down because he'd held it all this time and his biceps are practically sagging with fatigue. Next, he arrays the cutlery on the table and fills a goblet with fresh water. “So I suppose we're still going?” Merlin doesn't look up; instead he lines up the dishes on the table. Symmetry's nice. Besides, it helps him not to think about Arthur possibly putting a stop to their tradition. Merlin really wants to go. There's something in him that thoroughly longs to. Normally he's one for staying indoors when the weather's so foul, but his heart downright hurts at the thought of not making the trip. Disappointment would put tears in his eyes, ruin his day, affect the whole season, really. He puts so much stock in this little yearly event that its failure to happen would cause his hurt to show. And while he knows perfectly well that there's nothing wrong with airing his true feelings, he doesn't want Arthur to fully suss them out. “Unless you'd rather, I don't know, take it easy today?”

With a shiver he suppresses, Arthur prowls over to the table. “It's Yule, Merlin.”

As Arthur seats himself, Merlin positions himself behind Arthur's chair. He jiggles from foot to foot, his soles squeaking as he moves. “Yeah, it's an important feast.” Merlin knows he's tempting fortune. Arthur's already said that they'll go. But he wants to be really sure this is what Arthur wants to do. It won’t work unless it’s something they both want to do together. “Maybe you want to spend it with the people of Camelot?”

Arthur puts down the cutlery he's just picked up and, though he looks displeased at the prospect of not eating his food right away, he says, “Whenever have we not gone?”

They’ve been going since Merlin's second Yule in Camelot. Arthur had only been a Prince then, and he had patrolled the borders more than he does now that he can delegate such tasks to his knights. They'd discovered the area quite by chance – the fight with the witch had, after all, strained and tired them – and had enjoyed it so much they had just gone back. Repeatedly. Merlin, however, doesn't see the point of repeating all this out loud. Arthur knows it as well as he does. So Merlin shrugs. “You're King now. Your responsibilities have shifted.”

“True.” Arthur turns his head so he can look at Merlin. “You're right about that, Merlin.”

Merlin gulps. He's dug his own grave with that remark, hasn't he? He risks drowning in a sudden well of sadness. “I suppose you can countermand your orders. The horses can be kept in the stables and –”

“Don't be an idiot, Merlin.” Arthur pulls him forward, so Merlin's facing him. “We're going. A little bit of frost is not enough to keep me indoors.” 

Merlin doesn't enjoy being that transparent. If Arthur knew just how much Merlin felt for him, just how much he craved his companionship, he'd never hear the end of it. He'd be teased mercilessly. But a smile gets away from him, and though it clearly shows how deeply glad he is that their expedition hasn't been postponed or cancelled, Arthur doesn't give him a hard time. In fact, he doesn’t mention it at all. He merely drags the other chair forward by hooking his foot round its leg, and he wordlessly invites Merlin to share his breakfast.

Merlin stuffs his mouth with porridge and beams at the same time. 

**** 

As they could have predicted given their view outside the window, the air is crisp with frost. It stings against Merlin's face and fingertips; it makes his lungs ache and turns his breath into little clouds one could almost plough into. Small snowflakes fall briskly downwards, carpeting the courtyard in their pall. Though the area is daily shovelled free, mounds of snow pile up around its perimeter. The younger pages and some of the more adventurous urchins from the citadel have been engaging in quick and dirty snowball fights, but it's so early yet that they're nowhere to be seen. They’ll wait until the sun is high before restarting their skirmishes.

The stable boy who attends to Arthur's horse must have slept in the straw bed by the wall judging by the blades of it still stuck in his hair. Though scarcely clear-headed, he saddles Hengroen, Arthur’s bay stallion, with the quickness of a cat, offering Arthur the reins with a nifty bow. 

Merlin mounts his chestnut gelding with less grace than his King, but efficiently enough, and before long they're out of the stables and through the palace gate. The sun is struggling to crest the treetops as they turn up the road pointing north.

Nature in winter seems quiescent, but it is not entirely so. Some animals may go into hibernation, some birds may fly towards warmer climes, but the forest isn't entirely devoid of life. Deer stomp across clearings and take shelter under pines. Foxes leave their lairs and hunt. Beavers play in fresh water, spraying droplets everywhere, whacking them around with their tails. In similar fashion birds populate the trees. Swallows and terns may have long gone, but blue jays, titmice and mourning doves still flit among the branches, squatting on them, covering their feet with feathers. As a country lad, Merlin's used to the rhythm of the seasons, the sombre charm of winter, the life that hides in the deepest nooks of the woods just like humans who burrow in their houses, waiting for the bad weather and short nights to pass.

A trip through the forest is also something else to Merlin. He doesn't merely see nature through the eyes of a former farmer, but through the veil of his magic. When he's so deep in woodland, his magic thrums and vibrates; it resonates and rejoices. Here, where trees bend into the sky and rivers run swiftly from their sources, he's charged with a power that seems to come to him from the very bowels of the earth. He's alive with it in a way he isn't in homestead and castle. 

And though he doesn't enjoy the cold – he absolutely hates that numb feeling his extremities get when temperatures drop – he must admit that the light swirls of snow that fall to the ground have a charm of their own. It's as if they were animated by magic, made so pretty by an ensorcelling hand, though he hasn't had a hand in it. Perhaps there is some mighty fairy somewhere who has turned the world into this crystalline dreamscape? Or maybe the world just has just a way of looking enchanted when it's closest to perishing.

“You like it, don't you? Merlin says, as if it's just a throwaway comment. Otherwise Arthur's hackles will rise. 

“I suppose it's an edifying view.”

“Edifying?” Merlin makes a face he's not sure Arthur will see, for he's busy leading his horse clear of the deepest snow drifts, so he laughs for good measure. “That's not the word I'd use.”

“And what word would you use?” Hengroen is a little ahead of Merlin, so Arthur turns his head to make sure Merlin can read his expression, which is a mixture of exasperated and fond. “Which one would you suggest?”

The fondness in Arthur's gaze, somehow, manages to overwhelm the irritation his words would provoke. It's the reason why Merlin answers, why he always answers, because Arthur barks but never bites. Arthur maintains a certain degree of detachment, which would hurt Merlin with his bottomless devotion if Merlin didn't somehow feel there was more to it, more candid affection, more silent support, more honest understanding of the rhythm of their exchanges. “Beautiful, enchanting, dreamy.”

“Pfft, have you swallowed a copy of the dictionary, Merlin?” Arthur says, smirking in the general direction of his bridle. “Such language is only good for swooning poets.”

“A knowledge of language is beneficial for kings,” Merlin says, making himself sound like Gaius does when he's lecturing. “Speeches are more impactful when the choice of word is apt.”

“Don't be a pedant, Merlin,” Arthur says, snorting for good measure.

They're very close now. The road narrows ahead, the branches of trees intertwining under their load of snow, the soil firm and unchurned underneath them, moss spreading green and brown along their trunks. 

They tie the horses to a sapling's bough at a point where the road is still wide enough, then they proceed on foot, their boots leaving imprints where they go. The path is dark and mostly straight, and so shadowed that the air has more bite to it here. 

If Merlin didn't know where they were going, he'd be afraid. But he knows what's ahead. Besides, there's nothing not to like in the situation. Because of the narrowness of the track, they walk shoulder to shoulder, the light friction driving a kind of warmth into Merlin that is less physical than mental. It spreads throughout him, creating a sensation of elation within him that transfers to his body. He thinks he must be blushing, for he can sense the rush of blood to his cheeks. He believes he must be giving off some kind of signal, for Arthur brushes closer. 

He wants the moment to last longer. He wants to be suspended in this instant, when everything's perfect, or almost so. When Arthur's close and nature is at peace. 

Arthur seems to be sensing some of this, because when the path opens up, he places a hand on Merlin's shoulder. “There we are,” he says.

And though they can't see ahead very well, he's right.

The widening track ends a hundred paces ahead. A circular pool, whose milky blue waters steam, stretches from one side of the clearing to the other. The clearing itself is surrounded by hillocks, which make it almost a secret spot, because it can’t be seen from the road and may only be spotted from the heights of distant mountains. Rocks of different proportions jut out of the water, growing larger as they approach the shore. Snow bunches around the boulders, which surround more than one side of the pool. Mist rises like smoky phantom limbs and almost climbs to the top of the rocks. Tufts of wizened grass sprout in the muddy spaces where the heat has melted the snow.

Perhaps it's a degree or two warmer than it was when they set out, but the air's still cutting. It manages to find a way under their clothes, and to chill skin and bone. Despite this Arthur sticks his chest out and starts taking off his clothes, starting with his boots, the show off.

Merlin hesitates. It's not that he doesn't want to do it, because he has come here with the intention of doing so, but it's right cold. To keep his circulation going, he has to stomp and stuff his hands under his armpits. Little tempts him to get naked.

“What's up, Merlin?” Arthur says, pink in the face and pale in the body, his summer tan gone under the onslaught of winter. “Not brave enough to do it this year?”

Merlin's not one to be goaded by challenges to his masculine self-respect. Arthur's more easily taunted when it comes to that. Moreover, he's getting gooseflesh all over, and his toes are shrinking in his boots from the cold. But there's something in him that just can't shut up when Arthur starts in with his pointed barbs. “I’ve done it every single year since we started, but this year seems particularly... harsh.”

“It's not worse then it was in our second year,” Arthur says, removing his tunic. Only his undergarments are left. “There was a snowstorm then, remember?”

Merlin does remember the occasion in general, but for some reason he can't quite recollect how frosty it had been. He can remember the haze of feeling he'd been overwhelmed by then. He can call back to mind the delight and joy that had taken him over. He can definitely almost taste some of the best moments belonging to that event, but he can't picture what the weather had been like. “It's worse when it doesn't snow.” Despite his words, Merlin starts undressing. “It means it's too cold for it to.”

“Blah, blah, blah,” Arthur says, removing his smallclothes. His anatomy, normally quite proud, shrinks, but he toughs it out. “Palaver, Merlin.”

Peeling off his fleece, Merlin can't resist a little riposte. “You're improving your vocabulary, I see.”

Arthur elbows him, just as Merlin starts to rue this stripping business. However, though the chill is turning his skin into a waxy slab of ice, he feels some kind of warmth working itself through the core of him. It's in Arthur's touch, in the way he manhandles Merlin with the proprietary intimacy of someone used to another's body. And though he talks about how Merlin should show him respect, about how a manservant shouldn't talk to his King the way Merlin does, his tone belies his words. Even more so his hands do. They're never rough; they slide and glide with a clumsy gentleness that buoys Merlin, makes him forget all about atmospheric events and causes him to concentrate on their revitalising effect instead. 

Even while stripping, he stammers and goes red. He's not a self-conscious man, but when he has all of Arthur's attention on him he feels overwhelmed by his body and its reactions. His heart goes that little bit faster, his blood experiences a wave of heat, even though there's ice all around, and his thoughts scatter like clouds driven off by a gale.

With Arthur's help, he manages to get out of his clothes, stumbling out of trousers and smallclothes. He keeps moving so he doesn't feel the full impact of the punishing temperature. Arthur's there, close, with his hands on Merlin, shepherding him forward with his palm on Merlin's nape, his bare flank grazing Merlin's.

It's like burning, like a flame inside him that energises him and drives him forward. When he's close to Arthur, he's always full of joy and contentment, but right now those simmering feelings boil over until his soul is yearning the way his body already is.

Merlin's never told Arthur, so he doesn't know whether Arthur suspects, whether his reactions are similar to Merlin's, but still Arthur hovers so close, his physicality like an anchor that grounds Merlin, his passing touch a comfort and a challenge to his desires, and it's as if he's guessed and wants to be there for Merlin. As if that's his answer to Merlin’s mute but stubborn longing.

Merlin likes to think so. He hopes that these motions of the spirit that drive him forward, that make his job as Arthur's silent defender so much easier, are shared, are sensations that Arthur partakes of. Arthur never says, never comments, but he's there with his body, with the comfort he offers when Merlin's down, often with his fond expressions, the secret smiles he sometimes sends him. This is the game they play, and though sometimes Merlin would like to spell it out, it's a charade he also enjoys. It puts a smile on his face; it's his reason for being. It's become part of the essence of him.

Right now, as they take their first steps into the swirling pool, Arthur grabs him by the wrist and guides him forward. 

Though the wind bites into their flesh with frigid teeth, their feet are suddenly warmed by the hot spring. Arthur's bath, filled with several pails heated on the stove and brought up endless flights of stairs, never manages to be quite as pleasant as this. 

Merlin smiles at the pool, spreads his toes, drinks in a lungful of the vapours the spring releases.

“So now you're enjoying yourself,” Arthur says, wading forward with Merlin in tow.

“Shut up.” Merlin eyes him sideways as he hurries to keep abreast with him. “Remember the first time we came?” Merlin does. It now has the taste of a pleasant memory, though at the time it had been nothing such. The witch had fought him with all that she had, and Merlin's magic had strained till he thought he'd die. Arthur had battled her just as hard, but had passed out as a consequence of her attacks. Merlin had gathered all his power then, furious at her assault on Arthur, and unleashed it at the sorceress. He had stayed conscious long enough to see the witch wither and die under his last attack, and then had passed out and woken up by this very pool. “Remember how I found out about it?”

“Yes, well, we all know you had to be revived by its waters,” Arthur says, wading forward. “Not everybody can be a valiant knight like me.”

Merlin bites his tongue. After all, it's true. Arthur may not have been the one who dispatched the witch, but he had withstood her till he had been knocked out by a force he had no weapons to resist. Merlin had helped with that because he could. Though sometimes he wishes his powers could be acknowledged, he can do without it happening. And he's happy to admit he does need support himself from time to time. He and Arthur work because they interact well in tandem. They're each less without the other. So Merlin doesn't posture or draw himself up. He lets it go. A little...“You're right, not everyone can be a numbskull like you.”

Arthur, who's turned around and now is facing him in all the glory of his body, takes his hand and leads him forward, moving backwards like a lobster himself. 

They're standing waist high in the pool now. The warm water unknots Merlin's muscles, drives warmth into his skin, pleasantly tickles him. It's a pleasure to be enveloped in the heat, and he sighs in relief. “It could be better,” he says next, as a wind rises that lashes his spine. “As it is, it's not exactly ideal.”

Arthur looks heavenwards, as if he doesn't know where to find the strength to put up with Merlin's complaints. He doesn't say anything, though. He merely squelches forward until the water reaches up to his forearms. 

Merlin wants to get closer, not just because of the wind whipping at his torso, but because he delights in Arthur's proximity. Because he enjoys smelling Arthur's smell. Because he likes being close to him, brushing against him. Because his magic soars and gladdens when they are near.

Straying from the deep centre of the pool, Arthur moves in the water, making for a cluster of rocks that juts out of the water and connects the hot spring to the shore. Arthur leans against a large rock, so that he's submerged up to the shoulders in the steaming current. 

As Merlin advances towards Arthur, he's enveloped in blissful warmth. This time there's not a bit of him that isn't immersed in the thermal waters. His shoulders relax further, his muscles do the same, and he inhales the slightly sulphurous smell that emanates from its depths. Though it's a lot at first, he feels that it's clearing his lungs, helping him breathe better. The warmth soothes him, caresses his skin, works itself inside him, and it's as if he'll never be cold again, as if the snow collecting on the banks of the pool is only there to enhance the view. 

“You look satisfied,” Arthur says, placing his hands squarely on Merlin's hips. “Like a purring cat.”

Merlin tries not to focus too closely on Arthur's touch. If he does, he'll sound stupid and incoherent, which is not something he aims for, much less with Arthur, who already has an inflated ego. “It's nice out here.”

“You should have had a look at your face this morning when you thought we wouldn't set out.” Arthur's mouth twists up, but though he's yanking Merlin's chain, there's nothing mean about it.

Merlin bites. “I just don't like staying locked indoors all day.”

“I recall you saying there was nothing like the comfort of hearth and home when it storms outside.” Arthur looks a bit like a naughty know-it-all.

“I like my warm baths,” Merlin insists, if only in the name of his pride. “Gaius says the Romans –”

Arthur's mouth collides with his in a touch that doesn't resemble a kiss so much as a siege. But as Merlin gasps into it, it gentles, and before long it gets sweet, and spine-melting, their tongues touching, their lips snagging together till they part for breath, Merlin’s heart racing with expectation and hope. 

“Do we really care about the Romans?” Arthur smiles and his eyes cross as he looks at Merlin from so close.

“The Romans?” Merlin indulges in a chuckle that is too full of mirth to be ironic. Stuff the Romans. “Who are they?”

Arthur wraps his arms around Merlin, his hands locked together just a notch above the small of his back. He pulls Merlin to him and they match limb for limb. The water touches them like a lover does and cradles them together. With a sigh, Merlin yields to this, to Arthur. Not that he'd have put up much of a fight otherwise, but if they'd been back at the castle, he would probably have tried to extend the banter longer.

As it is, he touches his mouth to the side of Arthur's throat, skimming his lips along the length of it, until he encounters the jut of bone. He nips then, and Arthur's arms tighten around him, the embrace now more desperate, passionate. An incoherent little sound escapes him, so Merlin sucks harder, finds his Adam's apple, which dips as Arthur reacts to Merlin’s tongue.

Merlin's spurred on, so he grazes his lips along Arthur's shoulder, the span of it wide and powerful, good for a fighter, a warrior who lifts his sword daily like Arthur does. His mouth relearns the taste of Arthur's skin, the texture of his muscles. It's a field of battle he knows, has long relished, but it feels new every time they do this, move this close, manage to carve out some time for intimacy that doesn't impinge on the cares of the kingdom.

And because moments like this are so rare, Merlin's always a little bit desperate, a little bit impetuous. His greedy mouth explores as much territory as it can, lips rounding against notch of bone and length of muscle. Then he turns Arthur's head with reverent fingers and takes Arthur's mouth.

This time it's more heartbreaking than before. Merlin's always kissed Arthur as if it's the last time, as if there's no tomorrow, as if he won't have another chance. The frequent attacks on Arthur and the social divide between them have given him the notion that he won't always be able to. Arthur's more relaxed towards him since he became King. He smiles when he sees Merlin, makes nothing of his station, and he sometimes gets this fond look that splices Merlin's heart. And yet their encounters rarely seem to haunt him like they do Merlin, never seem to raise the spectre of loss. Perhaps it’s because back at the castle he’s surrounded by his knights, by his subjects, by all the obligations of his crown. But this time it seems as if everything hangs on this kiss, on this brush of lips, on this fleeting encounter of tongues. The warm steam curls around them like a shroud of privacy separating them from the world. Here, it’s just the two of them, not King and servant.

Merlin can hardly think, can hardly breathe. His chest is rising and falling with every breath he renounces in favour of kissing Arthur's like there's no tomorrow, of rubbing mouths and meshing them together like they were made from the same mould.

As Merlin indulges, as he lets himself burrow into the nooks and crannies of Arthur's mouth, his magic flares. Just as Merlin would love to take up permanent residence in Arthur’s arms, invisible filaments of his magic reach out to the broad cradle of Arthur’s chest. He feels the fire of it burning through his fingertips, as if it seeks to place its brand on Arthur. 

They're so close now, their kisses so open-mouthed and wild, that heat rushes through Merlin like a firestorm. There's an edge of painful longing to it, but also enthusiasm and passion, a charge like thunderbolts that drive Merlin so close to the heights of pleasure he has to take a step back, if only figuratively. 

Breathing hard, Arthur says, “You can't stop now.”

Merlin touches cheeks with Arthur, tries to get himself under control, though he feels he'll never be when he's this close to Arthur. He belongs here with him, by virtue of destiny and also personal choice. Body to body, as they are now, Merlin feels attracted like a star to its orbit in the night sky. “Give me a moment,” he says, failing to express all the rest as he nuzzles Arthur's face. 

Arthur's slips his hand over his back, down to his bottom, bringing him tightly against him. 

Merlin can only absorb the intensity of the moment, the wholesale touch of Arthur's body. His head spins while he yearns, flushing, trembling, feeling the insistent throb of Arthur against his own erect flesh. 

He can't focus enough to kiss Arthur again, but he slips his hand between them and finds Arthur's length. 

Turning his wrist just a little, he wraps his palm around him, stroking up and down, finding a slow rhythm that gets Arthur worked up, moving from base to tip and back again. As Arthur moans and gasps, Merlin immerses himself in the moment, enjoying every tactile sensation that comes his way, loving the way Arthur participates with little grunts and half-words that mean nothing and everything. 

Watching helps Merlin take his mind off his urgency, off his own desire. They don't have endless time together; the cares of the crown and Merlin's own tasks take away from what could be. So Merlin just wants these encounters to last as long as they can. Besides, this one's special. They're marking a feast day, one meant to salute the future return of the sun and the longer days that go with it. Plus, the event is special for them all on its own.

As Merlin cups and rubs him, Arthur drops his gaze, lids coming down, lip trapped between his teeth. It's as if he wants to say something, but he fails to. He just manages a big inhale, like a drowning man who suddenly finds the surface.

Though the warm water slows things down, Arthur's muscles go taut, show under his skin, together with tendons that cord like ropes. Like this, Arthur's at his best. Arthur's a man of action, a man whose physicality always takes over. And when he's half gone, nearing the slope that comes just before climax, he's like a warrior god of ancient times. Merlin has seen the leftover statues, the crumbling ruins of a civilisation whose dawn was centuries past. Even at their best, most idealised and triumphant, they have nothing on Arthur. 

Merlin adjusts his grip, refolds his hand around Arthur, twists at the tip. Arthur's shoulders round and bunch, as if this hurts, but Merlin knows it doesn't. Arthur's not one to let his guard down, to let Merlin know that he's feeling it all the way. But Merlin knows his little tells, the way his eyes nearly close, they way his teeth tend to sink into his soft bottom lip till they mark it, the way his hands find Merlin's hips and roam and quest as if he's searching the land for some miraculous weapon that can ensure Camelot's safety.

As Merlin plays him, Arthur clenches his jaw, so that he looks even handsomer than usual. He breathes through his nose, and it's a fine staccato of a rhythm. There's no better music. His forehead pearls up with sweat, and it's not just because of the warmth of the water surrounding them. 

Merlin watches him closely for signs, so he can tell when it's the right moment to finish him, how not to let this become torture, however longed for, but also because he wants to etch Arthur into his memory, because he wants to be able to call up this very moment in his future reminiscences.

When Arthur groans deep in his chest, Merlin pulls at him with jaunty caresses. When Arthur reacts with a forward jerk of his whole body, he firms up his touch. And when Arthur grips his flank and humps his hand, Merlin knows to give him a few more sharp tugs.

Close now, Arthur pumps against Merlin's palm, digging his fingers into the sharp rise of Merlin's hips. He sucks in air, and thrusts and thrusts, and Merlin wrings everything out of him. 

When he's done, he leans his forehead against Merlin's. He wraps his arms tight around him in a clench that leaves Merlin breathless and dazedly happy. He's murmuring something, something buried deep in the workings of him, and though his chosen form of expression doesn't amount to words, Merlin thinks he understands him.

At the very least he feels uplifted, as if something in his soul is soaring free, as if he's riding the back of a dragon. This sweetness that sweeps away everything else in him, this firm embrace that seems to be able to shield him from all possible misfortune, makes him light as a feather, delivers him of his worries, paints a smile on his face.

Even his sense of urgency has abated, though he's thrilled by Arthur's closeness. While watching Arthur, he has almost forgotten about himself, his situation. But now he's aware of being halfway there. He could work himself closer to coming, or let this subside. Though it would help if he hadn't an armful of Arthur.

Arthur awakens to awareness of this. He slaps a resounding kiss on Merlin's neck, then moves them so that Merlin's the one with his back to the rocks. “Let's think of you now, Merlin.” He says it in a didactic tone that makes Merlin burr with laughter. “Never say I don't know how to pay back in kind.”

Then Arthur helps him up on the rock so that Merlin's splayed on it, back to the rough granite, his legs apart. 

He should feel cold. The only reason snow doesn't pile on the rocks is because they're too close to the water, which emits enough vapour to melt it. But he can't say he notices the bitterness of the climate, for Arthur moves closer. He places a soft kiss on Merlin's inner thigh, one which has Merlin trembling and verging on orgasm. 

Arthur's places his hands on Merlin's thighs, their imprint as hot as a furnace. Merlin leans on his elbows to have the best view he can of what Arthur's doing; that alone drives him more than a little wild. 

Placing a line of kisses along his inner thigh, Arthur sets Merlin on fire, punches all his breath out of him. Merlin hardens a notch more, fills, till he's heady with it. 

Then Arthur steps between his thighs and places his mouth on him, a perfect warm seal, and rims him with his tongue and lips, sucking and laving till Merlin's muscles lock down. He shudders and sobs, because this is so fine, so perfect, it almost hurts. 

It leaves him open and unguarded, unable to shield his reactions, to camouflage them at all. With Arthur he likes to joke and banter, to only vow his unwavering devotion when the occasion makes it necessary, when he fears they're not making it out alive. Ordinarily he cloaks his love with humour, and his affection with silly smiles. He likes to think that though Arthur knows Merlin's loyal, he won't find out about the extent of his deep tenderness for him.

But now he's naked in more than the literal sense, and he fears and he yearns with the fierceness of a storm. Arthur traces him with his tongue, smears him with his lips. 

At that Merlin's hips twist and lift, both into the touch and away from it. It's so purely devastating, it's almost too much. Yet Merlin aches for Arthur with a yearning so deep it seems to him elemental, like his magic, like this spot of theirs, surrounded and nestled deep within nature.

In reaction to Arthur's doings, Merlin tenses up. It's an instinct, because he's bracing for orgasm, and because a small part of him almost fears being the object of this much pleasure. It's so overwhelming, Merlin free-falls into an unthinking vortex of sensation. It's joyful, but also tastes a little like surrender, like annihilation. 

It's when he realises that he'd ride into death with his eyes open for Arthur, that this has nothing on what he'd do for him, that Merlin lets go. 

Arthur must have sensed it, because he multiplies his efforts. This time he pokes and presses with his tongue, and it takes nothing for him to penetrate him with it. 

Merlin gets broken and remade by this. He's not sure he can see straight, make out what's right in front of him, but he does see a rainbow of colour deep inside him. If he were sentimental, he'd think it was his powers unfolding. It might not really be that, but right now he does feel as though he could remake the world with a nod of his head or a wink of his eyelashes.

The in-and-out motions of Arthur's tongue mimic another kind of intercourse, his inroads giving Merlin just as much as those of another sort. 

He doesn't exactly vocalise it, but he's making more noise than he would in the castle's keep. Merlin's at one with Albion, draws his energy from it, almost his very breath, and he's never felt it as much as now, when he's out in the open, warmed by the hot currents coming from the pool, on a bed that the land made for him. 

As Arthur dips his tongue inside him, Merlin throws his head back, face to the sombre December sky, body clenching from a last-ditch effort to enjoy this for a fraction of a second longer. Out of instinct, he moves towards Arthur, who licks and mouths at him with no respite.

There's no going further; there's no extending this. Arthur's worked his tongue deep in, and it feels as if he's opened up new ways for Merlin to explore bliss, and Merlin's own body is on the cusp of yielding. So when Arthur grips his cock, Merlin comes. He bursts at the seam, spilling love and dedication.

He does so with a ferocity he's not sure he's known before, not even when he was an adolescent in Ealdor, eager and confused by all the new urges he’d discovered, when sex was a solitary activity to be indulged in in the forest.

Without the warmth brought on by sex, the cold pierces Merlin now. It stabs him in pinpricks that dot his skin in the form of gooseflesh. He shivers and sits up, hugging himself, before slipping back into the hot waters of the natural spring. 

Arthur gathers him in his arms for a few more intense seconds, then he steps back, ruffles his hair, and says, “You could never be a soldier; you have no resistance to bad weather.”

Merlin almost wants to point out that he follows Arthur everywhere, irrespective of the nature of the mission or the concomitant weather, but he feels too languorous and heavy and sleepy for repartee. So he sinks up to his chin in the pool so that it can warm him up again. 

His limbs have reached a perfect degree of warm and toasty, when Arthur looks up at the overcast sky. It's far darker than when they set out, great charcoal nimbi merging together in one storm-promising blanket.

However much they're enjoying the soak, they can't stay here forever. 

“I think it's time we head back,” Arthur says, sounding matter of fact.

Merlin wishes they could linger here forever. He wonders if with his magic he could make it so...

Arthur wraps an arm around his shoulder and directs him towards the very centre of the pool. Then his expression softens mightily, his eyes taking on a shine as if of reverence, because they dance and sparkle so. With a quick motion, he pulls Merlin to him and smacks a kiss on his lips that makes Merlin shake. Arthur's grin widens and he splashes Merlin with water so that even his hair's completely wet now.

Merlin's sure he currently looks like a drowned rat, and for that he retaliates. A completely damp Arthur, however, looks like a demigod. His body shimmers and even his hair, which should just adhere to his skull, takes on a warmer hue. Knowing he's fighting a losing battle, Merlin stops. He grabs Arthur by the neck, skims a kiss across his lips, and moves back towards the shore. “You're right,” he calls out, as he tries to dress as quickly as he can so he won't freeze limb by limb. “Time to head back!”

**** 

Snow drifts quietly down, masking the sounds of hooves and the normal activities that go on in the forest. The darkening sky already promises to usher in the last short day of the year, the last long night before new dawns break lighter.

As the tiny snowflakes dance around him, falling in beautiful choreographies from up above, the horses trudge home, needing little guidance from their masters, because they know their way to the stables, where blankets and fresh hay await them.

He and Arthur hunch, so as to offer as small a front to the cold as possible. Yet from time to time they turn their heads to grin at each other. Though the mantle of ruling Camelot waits for Arthur, today is a day of joy and mirth, of promise and hope. 

Icicles dangle from fence lines and boughs. Frost patches extend from the base of trees, behind which rowan bushes dotted with bright berries grow. 

Merlin halts his horse, jumps down and races over. 

Arthur reins in his own mount and asks, “Whatever are you doing, Merlin?”

Merlin beams, says, “Rowans symbolise life, don't you know?” It's Druidic lore, he doesn't add, for Arthur's been brought up by Uther, and Uther disapproved of everything that had the tang of magic to it. “Besides, they betoken courage.”

“And what are you doing with rowan twigs?”

“I mean to gift them to you.” Merlin shrugs.

Arthur looks as surprised as if someone had knocked him right off the saddle. He takes a breath, his eyes round and shimmering with delighted surprise. He hides a smile behind his hand, but his happiness resounds in his voice even as he goes for humour. “In that case, Merlin, they're my due.”

“Yes, my valiant Lord,” Merlin says with a note of teasing in his tone Arthur has very consciously called up. “As your fearlessness requires.”

As Merlin hurries back up in the saddle, Arthur snorts, but Merlin knows there's no trace of offence in his behaviour. Judging by how he sits tall in the saddle in spite of the freezing conditions, he's rather pleased.

Before Merlin is quite comfortable sitting astride his mount, Arthur nudges his stallion with a little click of the tongue. Merlin has to govern his beast as best he can in order to catch up.

Because the road is more covered in snow than it was, it takes longer for them to make their way back to Camelot than it did for them to reach the pool. Mounds of it cover the embankments and sometimes even the main pathways, making their advance slow. 

But, for all that, nature smiles upon them. Robins sing to them from atop branches, squirrels frolic around the bases of the most beautiful trees, and the white blanket softening the landscape unfolds for them as far as the eye can see. Snow sits on rooftops and sills of farmhouses, in front of doorsteps and stable fences, and reaches even the garret ledges of the tallest abodes.

Even the citadel of Camelot is now astir with the festivities. Now that Arthur has lifted the ban on all practices that have a whiff of the Druidic about them, things have changed. Wreaths and small sprigs of aromatic evergreens decorate doors and windows. Children play about in the lanes, though they briefly stop to doff their hats when they see their King, returning home from his early morning foray with his manservant in tow. And sweetmeats and comfits sit on display in the shops selling foodstuffs, their spicy smell flooding the little alleys that climb towards the castle, and which they ride along on their way to the keep. 

And when they get through the gates to the inner courtyard, they find a crowd waiting for them, standing right under an arch interlaced with winter roses as red as apples. They stand under it bearing candles that burn bright, and that they cup against the treacherous wind. Gwen is at their head, her dress rich and seasonal, the knights flanking her, a body of servants of all sorts forming the bulk of the assembly.

Pure joy at the sight of them, the people he's vowed to serve and defend, fills Merlin to the core as he dismounts.

When they see Arthur, still sitting atop Hengroen, cloak billowing behind him and along the horse's haunches, they start singing a beautiful and ancient song whose rhymes and refrains float to the sky and seed it with a magic different than, and yet at one with, Merlin's.

The End


End file.
